The Collected Writings of Captain John Smith
by Lahiwe
Summary: It's been a while since Thomas Ryan has had anything to do with the New World. Still, memories of it have never left him. Five years after his return to England, however, he receives a strange parcel and a letter from none other than his old friend, John Smith. Read the story of Pocahontas from Captain Smith's perspective-perhaps you'll learn things you never knew you never knew.
1. Prologue

**A/N: I return! With my promised companion piece to _Choosing Her Own Path. _This story is still a work in progress, though I have the overwhelming majority of it already written. I wanted to publish the first chapter to give me incentive to work through the writer's block I'm experiencing for the bits I have left. It's summer now, so that should be easy. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.****  
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I still wasn't used to the muggy London air.

Even though it had been four, almost five years since I'd left the New World-Virginia, as the English settlement is coming to be called-the fresh, clean air had never left me. I breathed it in my dreams, the dreams I had almost every night of those primeval forests and sparkling rivers. In my dreams everything was golden tinged, even though I'd long ago stopped believing that there was gold buried in that land. My dreams, however, were the only indication that I truly missed America, the place where I became a man.

The morning the letters arrived was another one of those muggy days, and as always when it was particularly stifling, I found myself daydreaming of Jamestown-specifically, the Powhatan lands that surrounded it. The place held so many memories, happy and sad, but in my daydreams I focused on the happy ones. I recalled the day we first set up camp and how absolutely ecstatic I was at the prospect of adventure and wealth; the hunting parties we went on that consisted of game shooting as well as game playing; all the times Captain Smith had taken me into the forest to show me how to cut and identify a trail or some other useful explorer's knowledge. I even let myself remember Pocahontas for a moment-after John left we'd struck up a friendship, and for much of the rest of my time in Virginia I spent every spare moment that I had listening to her stories or canoeing the rapids with her. Yes, she was responsible for the happiest of my memories, but I knew I couldn't think of her for long without guilt, for I knew that I was the ultimate cause for the shadow of sadness that descended upon her and hadn't lifted even two years later, when I sailed back to England.

I was in the middle of remembering a particular incident that involved Pocahontas and some chicken-chasing when a rapid knock broke into my reverie.

Who the devil wanted to see me at half past eight in the morning?

Annoyed, I wrenched the door open unceremoniously only to find myself looking down into the kindly eyes of Aaron Pederson, the unofficial mail carrier for the small hamlet in which I lived that sat just on the outskirts of London. Every week he'd make the short journey to London proper and gather any mail that was addressed to residents of our community. He refused pay, saying it was merely his neighborly duty. My expression immediately changed from frustration to good humor.

"Pederson! I'd forgotten today was mail day. You wouldn't believe how annoyed I was when you knocked at the door. I'm sorry if I scared you," I finished, slightly embarrassed, remembering how forcefully I'd flung open the door. However, he didn't seem to mind at all.

"Thomas, boy, I knew you'd probably had something on your mind. Don't worry about it at all, we all have those mornings. But there, I've got something that's sure to cheer you up-" he broke off to reach into his sack, searching for something. In a few moments he pulled out a large, heavy-looking package wrapped in canvas and tied with several strings.

"This is for _me_?" I exclaimed. I was shocked. I knew I hadn't ordered any tools or manuscripts, so it couldn't be that. Someone had sent all this to me. I had never received a package that large in my entire life.

"That's not all. There's this, too." Still holding the canvas package in one hand, he reached in his bag once more to produce a rather thick envelope. Placing both of my packages into my hands, he winked and said, "I hope you'll be sure and tell me the story about what's behind all these fancy packages and letters, son. This place don't hardly get much excitement, but this!" Laughing, he mounted his horse once more.

"I just hope it isn't anything horrible! Good morning, Pederson!" As I watched his retreating form make its way down the road, I couldn't bring myself to look at the sender's name. Fear had gripped my heart; I was sure I had received tidings that my father or sister or little brother had died, and the package contained some of their belongings that they wanted me to have. It had been a while since I'd heard from them and I was growing anxious-this package only served to intensify my anxiety. But I knew that whatever the news was, my not looking at it didn't make it any less true, so, with some effort, I forced my eyes to the corner of the letter.

_Captain John Smith-Jamestown Settlement, Virginia_

It couldn't be.

I hadn't heard from John in seven years.

Yet here it was, staring me in the face. Quickly I checked the canvas-wrapped parcel, and it shared the same label. My anxiety was rapidly turning into confusion. Surely all of this had to be good news. But what in the world could it possibly _be_? There was really only one way to find out. I picked up the letter first, slitting the seal open carefully with a slender penknife. Opening it slowly, I began to read, my breath tightening in anticipation with every word.

_Thomas,_

_I hope this correspondence finds you in the best of health. I really can't believe I'm writing this to you. I never thought that I'd be alive to ever get in touch with you again, and certainly not to tell you of my upcoming wedding. Yes, I'm getting married-I who, at one point, vowed never to let a woman tie me down. I suppose you can guess who my betrothed is given the location from which this letter was sent. I've finally returned to Jamestown, and to the single most incredible woman and admirable person I've ever met, Pocahontas._

_I know that you're wondering all sorts of things right now, so I'll explain what's happened since I last saw you. I spent several months recovering, and after I was discharged, the British Army declared that I had not finished the term of service that I had signed up for when I accompanied the Virginia Company and sent me notice that, as I was well once more, I would need to resume my service. However, they were reluctant to send me back to Jamestown-although my innocence in the matter with Ratcliffe had been proven, they were concerned that I would be _"distracted" _from the goals of the colony because of my obvious loyalty to the Powhatans. They offered me several positions, but the one ensuring the highest pay was as a leader of a colonization force in Grenada. I needed the money so that I could return to Virginia and purchase a plot of land there-you really have to be rather wealthy to come here now-so I accepted. _

_Those years were the longest of my life. I had never had a problem "taming savages" before, but after what happened in Virginia-after Pocahontas-I found the whole business repulsive. I tried to make the whole thing go as peacefully as possible and I believe that I succeeded in preventing an all-out revolt of the natives. Still, there were those who shot at the natives for sport, saying that they loved to see them run. I hope God forgives our country for the evil we've perpetrated._

_Finally, my term of service was up. I had made more than enough to get settled in Virginia, and I was free to venture there, no longer as a member of any council, but as a planter. I purchased a one-hundred acre tract (after I made certain that it was certified English land, agreed upon by the Indians) and made my way back to Jamestown, where I reunited with Pocahontas. Thomas, you would be proud of her. She has been an ambassador between the white settlers and her people, and all of the Englishmen I have encountered speak of her with the highest esteem, even reverence. She tells me that you and she became great friends in the two years after I left. It seems strange that you have known Pocahontas-that is, been familiar with her-for longer than I have. You might even have some things to tell me about her that I couldn't have learned in the short time I've known her. But though I have only several months' worth of experiences with her, I know that I want to spend the rest of my life with her._

_That brings me to the main reason for this letter. You've probably been wondering about the parcel-I only hope you read this before you open it, it provides a lot of explanation. The package I sent contains my collected writings. Not all of them, mind you; I intend to publish a good number of other writings as books that chronicle my experiences in the New World. But the manuscript that I have sent you contains all that I would not have the rest of the world see, at least not yet. Mostly, it tells the story of Pocahontas and I, how we fell in love, and how she taught me to see past what I had been taught and to truly appreciate the world around me. As one of my two dearest friends (that would be you and Pocahontas), I felt that you would be the best person of anyone to know my story. Perhaps you can pass it on to your children, and they to theirs, and when a time comes that people are more tolerant, more understanding-then, maybe, it can be released to the world. _

_I wish you all the very best, and moreover, invite you to be present at my wedding, which is to take place in six months. Pocahontas has written you a letter as well that goes more in depth on that subject._

_Yours sincerely,_

_John Smith_

My head was still spinning from all of the revelations in John's letter, and I itched to open the parcel, but I wanted to read what Pocahontas had written before I delved into what looked like a lengthy history. Her letter was slim, tucked almost unnoticeably into the envelope in which it had arrived. Upon opening it, it read as follows:

_Dearest Thomas,_

_It has been long since we trod on the same earth. I pray with all my heart that you are well and safe, and that your years in London have been happy. Perhaps you even have a wife and children of your own; if so, please give them my warmest regards. Grandmother Willow says hello, by the way-though I know that you were never convinced of her existence._

_I still smile when I think of the friendship we shared-you were a still a boy then, and I was a girl, and our youth lent itself to all sorts of adventures that I will never forget. I never told you this, but it was because of you that I was able to forge such a strong bond with the settlers. Without John, I had few ties to them, but you gave me an avenue to understanding them. Perhaps I did the same for you. _

_John and I hope that you can attend our wedding. In addition to my best friend Nakoma, I have made many friends among the settlers, and my people number greatly, but the celebration would not be complete without you. You mean so much to both John and I. Hopefully you can come-we set the date in enough time for you to be able to arrive here in April with time to spare._

_I hope that you will be uplifted by the story John has sent you. It brought me to tears upon reading it, and I doubt you'll be able to escape the same fate. He really put his soul into it, which is a testament to how much he trusts you, and how much you mean to him, though I know he'd never say it aloud. I know that you are worthy of that trust. _

_I, too, have a gift for you. Enclosed in the parcel is the stone necklace that I once wore always. It guided me on my path when I was lost, but now that John is here with me and the relations with the settlers have become more peaceful, I have become more secure in the knowledge of what steps I must take. I know that it is time for this to be given as a gift again, and my mother would certainly be happy to see it given to you. I know that you won't be able to wear it as a necklace, but I wanted you to have it nonetheless, because seeing it can remind you of all that you have done for John and for me. _

_Wingapo, my brother._

Tears had already sprung to my eyes in the middle of her letter, but upon reading the last sentence, they began to flow freely. I picked up her letter and John's and stared at them, tears falling from my cheeks and onto the paper, splattering the black ink. I cared about those two more than anyone else in the world, but I had had no idea that they felt the same for me. I longed to see them again, and smiled at the thought of being present at their wedding-as soon as I finished reading John's writings, I'd book passage on the next ship sailing to Jamestown. I'd already made up my mind that I would read John's words from start to finish, no stopping, no matter how much sleep I lost.

With trembling fingers, I untied the strings from the parcel, and unwrapped its canvas covering. As soon as I did, Pocahontas' necklace bounced out onto the table, the blue and gray stones shimmering just as brightly as they had been the last time I'd seen them. Laying them carefully aside, the image of the woman who once wore them floating in the corners of my vision, I grasped the leather-bound stack of papers that held my greatest friend's deepest secrets. I took a deep breath-and opened the cover.


	2. Chapter 1

_I can smell the forest all the way out to sea. What a beaut she'll be. _

_Five months we've been at sea; five long months full of storms and wind and hail. But it'll be worth it, we can all see that. It's a wonder they chose us for the trip anyway—peasants and men of war. But I suppose the aristocratic dandies who funded this trip aren't interested in the dirty part of colonization, no fort-building and Indian killing for them. We definitely won't be the ones complaining though—we were made for this, and we'll be the ones reaping the firstfruits of King James' first colony, God save him. Gold, gold, gold—it's all the men talk about, these men who've worked the fields or in the smith shops their entire lives, and rightly so. Me, I've seen my share of gold and jewels. It's the land I want. Haven't been able to stay in one place long enough to have my own, or else I've been working someone else's for no pay, and now…now I'll have all the time in the world to set some roots._

John Smith took his time walking across the deck. He had just finished talking with Governor Ratcliffe, soon-to-be head of the Virginia Company's colony, 's feet moved slowly because he was imagining the way the sand would feel beneath his boots, how it would make a small depression and he'd dig his heels further in, allowing himself to sink down slowly. He'd spent much time in the deserts of North Africa and was no stranger to sand, but there had always been something different about the shore—perhaps it was the water, the stones, the shells, but it made the whole thing seem firm. Real. And now he was standing within sight of this magnificent country, with a pine forest and craggy rocks right off the coastline, a far cry from the tropical shores he'd landed on before. In fact, everything about this place seemed different, even down to the bluish gray mist that crept out to sea, enveloping them all. The other men didn't seem to notice, though. The only change that could be observed among them as the ships got closer and closer was a deepening of the glint in their eyes; a more feverish, frenetic pace in getting ready for the landing, and a round of raucous cheering later on as dawn went down to day and as, finally, the anchor was hoisted over the railing into the shallow waters.

"Smith, I'd like to discuss something with you." John turned to see Captain Newport standing stiffly behind him. Newport was twice as old as he, but John was well on his way to accomplishing twice as much in his lifetime, and Newport didn't try to hide his resentment. He had been a privateer who raided Spanish and Portuguese ships of their wealth in the name of God and the King, but this never endeared him to the crew the way Smith's tales of high adventure in distant Oriental lands did. God, Smith was full of himself, but this had to be done.

"We've opened the writs containing the names of the heads of the colony, and…well…this may come as a surprise to you, but you've been chosen as an official council member."

John's mouth fell open in shock, and for someone as worldly as him, that was a very unlikely reaction. Quickly composing himself, he pulled his features into a mask he hoped was dignified, he murmured, "I'll do my best to serve the colony as well as I can." There was a pause, and John began to feel uneasy under the vaguely disgusted stare of Captain Newport. Then, realizing all the implications of his newfound power, clapped Newport on the shoulder and said with a slightly mocking smile, "I hope I'll be a welcome addition to the council!" Then he walked off, shaking inwardly with laughter, while Newport stood in his spot, shaking outwardly with rage.

_I suppose that's why Governor Ratcliffe decided to take notice of me this morning_. Even at the time it had seemed strange, his words that actually seemed to be speaking to someone with true authority, not just a military man and wanderer they'd signed on to help keep the men in check.

"_I'm counting on you to make sure those filthy heathens don't disrupt our mission." _Ratcliffe's beady eyes had born into his own like termites, and John had wondered why he was putting so much confidence in a man of such lower rank. He hadn't even had the poorly disguised hatred on his face that Newport had, only a strange look of…he didn't even know what. Shaking it off, he grabbed several packs and started towards the descent ladder. But before he could get very far—

"John!" A red haired boy running up behind him, a wide grin on his face. In spite of himself, John grinned in return. Thomas was devoted to Captain Smith, and there was only a ten year difference in their ages, making him the most relatable man on board. Unfortunately, Thomas was ten years _younger _than he, and his wide eyed innocence could be grating on the nerves. He hoped that this would not be one of those times.

"Oi, Thomas, what is it? You're squirming like a pup!" Thomas' nose reddened for an instant, but he was too excited to dwell on John's teasing.

"I heard the news! I can't believe you're actually going to be on the council! You wouldn't believe how excited all the men are!"

"Well, I hope I don't disappoint you all. Took me by surprise just as much as it did you."

Thomas continued to grin, but then his countenance fell slightly.

"John—I mean, Captain Smith…you won't…things won't change, will they? You won't start to…oh damnit, forgive me, sir, I shouldn't have…"

His eyes immediately fell downwards. John sighed, wishing he could give the boy a definite answer. He truly didn't know how they'd make him act. After all, the council members were wealthy and powerful men, and he was far from that. But looking at Thomas, and the other men bustling around on deck giving him friendly winks and shouts of approval, he knew that he would always feel guilty if he betrayed them.

"Thomas, you of all people should know by now that I'll never be like them. They won't let me." He smiled grimly. "Come on, get your things, we're both needed ashore."

"Wait, John. Look at it. It's incredible." Thomas was entranced by the beauty of the forest, just as John had been this morning. Closing his eyes, John allowed his mind to wander past the dread of colonial bureaucracy and into the depths of the woods, searching for something. But what in the world could he be searching for? The land. That had to be it. There would be acres and acres of green earth to explore, to _own. _But something else pulled at his chest, and it was neither the hunger for land nor the thirst for adventure that had been with him as long as he could remember.

* * *

John ran his fingers lightly over the outside walls of a roughly hewn cabin, the place he would call home for at least the next year. It had taken a few weeks, but Jamestown Settlement was finally habitable. Every man had a place to sleep and a roof over their heads with a little room to spare, they'd erected a meeting hall and a storehouse for the meal, flour, dried meat, wine, ale, and other provisions they'd brought from England, and they were hard at work on building fortifications. It was beginning to look like, if not a town, then at least a spot of civilization. He couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at the thought of this place—it wasn't much, but they'd built it with their own hands, right in the middle of a wild forest.

_That's what English determination will do for you, _he reflected, a smile spreading slowly across his face. His vision wasn't limited to the simple cabins and trampled mud and half built fort that he saw before him—he could already see cobblestones, a stone church, a marketplace, roads that trailed off into the unexplored forest and beyond. This place had so much potential for any enterprise—it was sure to be a model among all European colonies, if they could manage it right. If _he _could manage it right. John was determined to be at the forefront, making sure that his visions could become reality.

Twilight had already set, and John stood staring at the first twinkling stars in the dusky purple sky for a long while, his mind filled with hopes of progress and memories when a bellowing voice broke his train of thought.

"CAP'M SMITH! Get over 'ere, you old sea dog, and 'ave a pint with us!" John's face broke into a grin as he turned towards one of his longtime crewmates, Ben Connolly. His ruddy face was lit brightly by the fire, making him stand out starkly against the darkness of the surrounding forest. There were about seven other men sitting 'round the campfire, grinning merrily (John wasn't sure if this was because they wanted him to join them, or if they were just enjoying the benefits of near-drunkenness).

"Yeh, Smith! Come on and sit wit' us! Yer lookin' mighty lonely over there! The prissies ain't here to see ya, anyway, already cozy in their nightgowns!" A man sitting close to Ben, named Peter McClintock, seemed pleased at the audacity of his statement, but also genuinely hopeful that Captain Smith would join them. John shook his head to himself, smiling (the other council members didn't have to see, anyway), and ran towards the campfire.

"Ah, there's a good man! I knew ya'd come," Ben roared heartily, clearing a place next to him for John and smacking him hard on the back when he sat down. Finally he could feel at ease again. The elder members of the council had discouraged him from engaging in too much fraternization with the men, warning that they might refuse to be disciplined by him if he got too chummy with them. To hell with all that—John knew he was respected by his fellow crewmates. They trusted him, and didn't have a problem doing what he asked them to do because they knew he had their interests in mind. _Perhaps Ratcliffe and Newport and all the rest of them should take a page from my book, _he thought with not a little bitterness, _and gain respect instead of tolerance mixed with ridicule behind their backs. _

"We were jus' talking about the gold, Cap'n. Wonderin' how soon we'd be able to find it, and how much there is to be found," whispered Lon Baker, his blue eyes glinting in the firelight from excitement and a little bit of ale. Inwardly, John cringed—that was the last thing he wanted to talk about. Outwardly, he merely smiled and took a swig from the tankard he was offered.

"Hell if I know," he said nonchalantly. The others looked exasperated.

"D'you mean to tell us that you don't even care about it at all? 'Tis a shameful man that don't care nothing about gold—that is, shameful, or stinkin' rich!" Everyone guffawed at that, and John had to laugh too. It was rather ridiculous, but he cared more about the land than the money. He didn't suppose he'd ever be able to explain it to them, especially since he had trouble understanding it himself.

"I know what I'm doing with mine if—_when _we find it," spoke a soft voice. John glanced up sharply—it was Thomas, and his face was red yet again, probably out of embarrassment from speaking in front of a group of men that were all so much older than him. John knew what that was like; it seemed only yesterday when _he _was nineteen, still new to the sailor's life.

"And what exactly would that be?" John's voice was teasing, but his eyes were kind, and Thomas smiled gratefully.

"I'd build a big house for my family—my father and sister and little brother. We moved from the country when I was little because our farm burned down—my mother died there." The men started, their faces anxious, all afraid that he would begin to cry. He noticed their expressions and waved it away. "I wasn't really old enough to remember her. Anyway, my father always wanted to move back to the country. He says nothing in London reminds him of home or my mother. I like London, but if I could, I'd build him another house out there in the countryside so he could return." His expression was earnest, and silence fell over the group, many of them no doubt thinking about their own reasons for wanting the gold.

John was surveying Thomas' face intently. This boy was much less selfish than he'd been at that age; in fact, Thomas was less selfish at 19 than he was even now, at 29. For the first time in quite a while, he felt a twinge of shame, and also admiration. He found himself hoping that the young man would stay this way.

A tall, swarthy man named Dean Crofton cleared his throat to break the awkward silence that had descended upon them and stated in a conspiratorial tone, "I guess before we get to looking fer the gold, we'll first ha' to find the Indians. I'd say they know we're 'ere just as sure as I'm sittin' 'ere."

"Aww, stop pullin' my leg. This place don't look like anyone lives within a hundert' miles. Besides, if they did know we're here, why 'aven't they come and tried to scout us out? It's what any sensible people would do. Then again, savages ain't known for bein' sensible." Ben snickered, clearly amused at the thought of a savage that could reason like an Englishman.

"We'll just have to find them out before they find us out, won't we, men?" John's voice was clear, confident—but the confidence had a false note. He also suspected that there were Indians nearby, and he knew that where there was one, there were always many. No one seemed to have noticed his slight falter, however, because all the men in the circle cheered and raised their mugs to him.

"Those heathens won't even know what hit 'em!"

"That's the spirit!"

"They don't call you the savage slayer for nothing, do they Smith?"

John clinked his tankard with everyone else's in the enthusiastic group, but his face was somewhat drawn. This was nothing like killing Turks in the wars. Back then, he'd had the force of the British Army behind him, and his own youthful invincibility. Now he had neither of those things, and it seemed that the stakes were much higher. If the colony failed because of the Indians, his name would go down in history as having let England's second colony in the New World go to the savages. On the ship it had seemed much simpler: get the land, and, if there were stubborn savages on it, try to make them give it up. If they refused, they'd regret it. Here on land, however, the full view of the situation made him a sight less cavalier about it. They were nearby, and they were watching. It was only a matter of time before something happened, and there were no guarantees that it would be in their favor.

As the night wound down and John made his way back to his own tiny cabin, he stopped to look out into the woods beyond the settlement, completely black in the nighttime. The trees swayed in the wind and harsh animal calls could be heard, making it seem sinister and unwelcoming, and Smith frowned at the transformation. He felt like a coward for his next thought, but it filled his mind nevertheless.

_For our sake, I hope they stay away._


	3. Chapter 2

_By God, the land's more incredible than we ever thought it'd be._

_We've been ashore for several weeks now, and though the spot we first landed at was no good for setting up camp, we soon found a site on this island, Jamestown Island, what will be known to everyone as the first English colony. One of the first things I'll be known for that won't involve carrying off the heads of some Turks. It's sometimes even hard for me to believe. I've never been much of a poet, or any type of artist for that matter, but it's times like these that I wish I were. And thank God for fresh water; it's been a while since any of us've been able to get in a regular bath._

_The only thing any of us are truly troubled about is the Indians—there aren't any. We know for a fact that they're here, but not a one of us has caught sight of so much as a waving feather. Perhaps they've been watching us all along—seen our weapons, and decided it wasn't worth it. It's probably for the best. Me, I don't want to do any more killing than necessary, though I'd have no trouble picking off several of them if they decided to get hostile. I've learned that it's better just to keep things as peaceable as possible, to a point. If they've given it up, so much the better for them, and for us. Our weapons might be stronger, but they probably outnumber us by a ridiculous amount. _

_Like I said, if only I were a poet…there are so many great things to be found here. I'd like to get a scouting expedition going—I have to know what else is out there._

John's mind was in many different places at once as he made his way as silently as he could through the underbrush. First and foremost, he thought about his men, whom he had sent in groups of five to scout out the territory. He felt somewhat guilty about leaving them without his guidance, but he had been waiting to see this place on his own ever since the moment the ships had touched land. But Peter McClintock, Lon Baker, and Dean Crofton were pretty responsible fellows; they'd done more than their share in organizing camp at Jamestown. They were good shots as well. He knew he could trust them to keep their groups in check when each of them had uttered a solemn "Aye, sir," when he'd appointed them as scout leaders—right in his eye they'd looked, as if he'd just given them the most important command of their lives. And maybe it was. Knowing the location of all the tribes in the area was essential; if their fort was ruined by a surprise attack from the Indians, the investors from the Virginia Company as well as His Majesty King James might give up on colonizing America altogether, especially after that mysterious disappearance of the Roanoke colony, founded by Queen Elizabeth so long ago. John shuddered at the thought of their colony vanishing in the same way. No one in England would know until next spring, when the supply ship came, and by that time it would be much too late. And even if they knew…would they bother to look for a lot of peasants? _No, they wouldn't_, a dark voice inside him answered. _You're just here to do the dirty work for them_. Again the fate of the Roanoke settlers drifted through his mind. Yes, maybe this was the most important mission of their lives…

All ominous thoughts flew away, however, when he felt something bump his leg. Whipping out his dagger instinctively, John spun around quick as lightning, the air whizzing with an almost audible _zing!_ But when his eyes darted around in search of an attacker, all he saw was an incredibly uncanny-looking little furry creature, its mask-encircled eyes looking up at him balefully. The little thing looked just as if he knew who John was, and wasn't too happy about meeting him, either. But for some reason, John liked the creature in spite of its rather sinister appearance. Leaning down, he broke off a piece from a stale biscuit he'd carried along with him and gently nudged it toward the ring-tailed animal, keeping his fingers away just in case it decided to bite. Cautiously it approached the crumbs—it was almost funny how little the animal trusted him. Then, with a swift movement, the creature took the food into its mouth and darted away. But before it disappeared completely into the forest, it stopped, turned around, and gave John another baleful look that seemed to say,_You don't fool me with your silly crumbs. I know you are an intruder. You don't belong here. _The look startled John, to say the least, but the animal was gone he could make sure he hadn't imagined it. John sighed to himself—perhaps the little devil was right. It wouldn't be much of a surprise. Ever since he was fifteen, he'd had a feeling of disconnect from the world he lived in. Not the land itself, but the people and the places. He'd felt this way growing up in the English countryside, on the battle fields in the wars against the Turks, across the deserts of North Africa that he'd traveled just to see what was there—just about everywhere he'd been. It wasn't that he disliked those places—quite the contrary. But he always felt compelled before too long, pulled away by a call as insistent as the Piper's song in that story he'd always heard as a child. Soon the place would be a memory from a strange dream, whether he'd killed a man or made love to a beautiful woman. They all became memories—good for stories, yes, but nothing tangible, nothing he could sit and savor.

The brilliant sound of rushing water jolted him from his reverie, and he was taken aback by the sight that lay in front of him. A sweeping landscape of lush green hills cut through by several streams, with high cliffs at its edge that, he supposed, broke off into the crashing bay. And behind it all was the turquoise sky, clearer than any sky he'd seen. This place was much different from the marshy area they'd landed in—even the air seemed fresher, and he took a deep gulp of air and spread out his arms to feel the breeze. He laughed while doing it—on his first sailing voyage, he'd done the same thing right in the center of the deck, garnering him a whole lot of stares. But he didn't care then, and he certainly didn't care now. How else was one supposed to take the world in? Especially this new world. He was coming to disagree with the cynical statement he'd made to Thomas on the journey over: "_I've seen hundreds of 'new worlds,' Thomas. What could possibly be different about this one?" _He'd been quite wrong. This place was profoundly different from anywhere he'd ever been—it was so free, so full, so isolated from the rest of civilization. Here, he didn't have to belong. The land could be his alone, however far it stretched. At that thought, he began to walk with more of a sense of purpose, even though he still had no idea where he was going. As he pulled out his compass and a journal to check his location and describe it for a later map, a song appeared at his lips. It was an old English ballad about a willow grove near a river, and it matched the beauty of his surroundings.

* * *

John was surprised to find the cove. It was secluded from the rolling hills he'd been traveling through, and from its slightly salty smell, he could tell it was an inlet from the sea. Its atmosphere made him apprehensive, to tell the truth—its shadowy caves and the smoky mist from the waterfall that tumbled into it reminded him of the dark, incense-filled halls of a cathedral. However, he was nearly drowning in sweat, and his lips had reached that stage of dryness when licking and the occasional sip of water did absolutely no good. So he pushed back his irrational concern in order to rinse his face off and take some refreshing gulps of water—and, while he was at it, why not pour some on himself, anyway? He filled his canteen several times and poured the ice cold water down his sticky shirt, letting it wash the dirt and sweat away. The rivers of ice ran down his skin, sending shivers up his spine—but he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising for an entirely different reason. The air had become thick with the unmistakable aura of another human being. John scooped up a handful of water and glanced at its mirror surface, which revealed the reflection of a shadowy figure perched up where the cove began to slope. Realizing quickly that his every move was being watched, he acted as if he noticed nothing strange, even though every muscle in his body was now coiled as tight as a spring. With studied nonchalance, he made his way to the waterfall, as if he were going to bathe there, then quickly disappeared into a cave that lay behind it. Whoever was watching him would certainly come out to see where he'd gone, and then he'd have the advantage of being hidden. John carefully loaded his gun and lit the fuse, holding the sputtering flame under the hood of his steel helmet so that the water would not put it out. As it was, he ran the risk of the gunpowder getting wet, but he'd just have to take that chance. From behind the curtain of falling water and hanging moss in front of him, he could see a tall figure inching down into the water, and from the way the figure seemed to crouch and wait every so often, he knew it had to be an Indian.

Now was the time. He jumped out, aiming his gun directly at the shadow. _If only that damn mist would clear away!_ John had been hoping that conflict could be avoided on the first meeting, but if anyone was going to die today, it would not be him.

And then the fog drifted away.

He was left standing utterly speechless.

In an instant, dozens of emotions flew through his mind, from shock to relief to confusion to happiness and finally to utter awe. Standing in front of him was not a warrior poised for attack, but a girl—or was she a woman?—who slowly lifted from her crouch to stand and look him straight in the eye. Her face was calm, her limbs steady, her gaze unblinking. But her eyes—they ripped through him, searching, finding, seeming to understand everything about him in a moment. Then she looked down for a brief instant, and he took in her Amazonian height, her billowing bluish-black hair, her sculpted arms and hands and legs. She seemed as though she'd been carved from some sort of living marble. His mouth fell open of its own accord, and he unconsciously reached out to touch her, to confirm her reality—he'd never been in the presence of a being like this before. But when he leaned forward as if in a trance, walking slowly so as not to scare her away, the spell was broken. She frowned in confusion and terror before darting off. Now she realized she was completely human; all the more reason not to let her get away. He took off after her, barely able to keep her within sight. She moved faster than anyone he'd ever met, seemingly unaffected by the branches and brambles that scratched at him and kept slowing him down. Desperately he called after her, until finally he caught up with her as she stepped into a long wooden boat.

"Don't run off," he panted. She bristled in suspicion, but he could see her body begin to relax as he stepped closer.

"I won't hurt you." He couldn't tell if she understood what he was saying—she looked confused. Well, that was better than terror.

"Here, let me help you out of there." She glanced up at him in consternation and addressed him for the first time in a stream of foreign syllables that sounded nothing like anything he'd ever heard before, making a series of rapid hand gestures all the while. What a dunce he'd been! Of course she was confused and terrified, he was a strange man talking to her in a strange tongue and following her, no less! He lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Don't be afraid."

Slowly she placed her hand in his—her hand was so slender—and let him lead her out onto the grass. A small smile appeared on her dark lips, and he knew that he himself was grinning insanely. Wind swept around her and he could smell her scent of sun and sweet grass and sweat. It was intoxicating.

"Who are you?"

It was a long moment before she answered.

"Pocahontas," she spoke, eyelids flying open.

Her lips began to move again, and though he could neither read them nor organize the syllables issuing from them, the sound of her voice was in his ear, speaking clearly.

"My name is Pocahontas."

Speaking as much with his mind and soul as with his mouth, he replied in kind.

"I'm John Smith."

* * *

_Pocahontas. Pocahontas. _He repeated her name over and over in his head as they sat down together under the shade of the tree. It was one of the strangest words he'd ever heard, but he supposed it fit her.

"It means 'little mischief,'" she said out of nowhere, as if he'd been speaking aloud. He still wasn't quite sure how exactly they were able to communicate, but it was difficult to ponder such things in her presence.

"You don't look like a little mischief to me." _Beautiful goddess, maybe. _But she gave him strange sideways glance with a dancing glimmer in her eyes that made him wonder.

She was supremely curious, constantly reaching out to something he was wearing or carrying and asking solemnly, "What's this?" She would listen to his reply with the utmost thoughtfulness, then smile and question him about something else. But she soon grew curios about John himself, and he felt inexplicably inadequate in the presence of her probing mind.

"You are a hunter, or a warrior?"

"How did you know?" He was in awe of the quick leaps her mind made, but this was bordering on psychic.

"When you first saw me, you were poised like a mountain lion, or a hissing snake." She paused to make a quick movement. "See how your neck twitches when I do that? And the muscles in your arm tighten. You have been hunted before."

Her eyes searched him once more, and before he could stop himself, he plunged into his entire history. Every story he'd ever told about his life (and some he hadn't) came flowing out of his mouth, every memory was dragged from his subconscious. Her face was eager, childlike as he spoke, and he soon forgot the wisdom that had been there upon their meeting. His tone took on one of superiority, almost, and soon he was speaking in the bluffing, bragging tones of John Smith the sailor, the vagabond, the world traveler. If she noticed, she didn't show it.

Eventually, he revealed to her that he wanted to explore this land, and it occurred to him that she probably knew all about it, not to mention where all the Indian tribes in the area were located. _This is a lucky meeting, indeed, _his mind reminded him. He didn't pay attention to the niggling voice that suggested that he was taking advantage of her, assuring himself instead that he was genuinely curious about her people.

"Tell me about this place, Pocahontas."

She looked at him curiously.

"From the beginning?"

"From wherever you like." He wasn't sure what she'd meant by that, but it could be useful, anyway.

She arranged herself carefully and sat straight up—obviously this was something important.

"A long time ago, before the sun rose and set each day, the Great Spirit looked around and saw nothing. No colors and no beauty. Nothing could be seen or felt. He decided to fill this space with light and life." She paused for dramatic effect, but John could only stare back at her, slightly stunned. This wasn't what he'd meant _at all_, but before he could say anything, she went on.

"From his great power, he commanded the sparks of creation. He ordered Tolba, the Great Turtle, to come from the waters and become the land. The Great Spirit molded the mountains and valleys on the turtle's back, and put white clouds in the blue skies. All this made him very happy. He said to himself, 'All is ready now. I will fill this place with the movement of life.' He thought about what creatures he would make. Where would they live? What would they do? What would their purpose be? He wanted a perfect plan. He thought so hard that he became tired and fell asleep." Pocahontas then lay down and closed her eyes, gesturing that John should do the same. He reluctantly did so.

"His sleep was filled with dreams of his creation, but he saw strange things. Animals crawled on four legs, some on two. Some creature flew with wings and some swam with fins. Plants of all colors covered the ground. Insects buzzed, dogs barked, birds sang, and people called to each other. Everything seemed out of place. The Great Spirit thought he was having a bad dream." John had not closed his eyes and was staring at her face, which was scrunched in consternation as though _she _were the one having the bad dream.

"When the Great Spirit awakened, he saw a beaver nibbling on a branch. He realized the world of his dream had become his creation. When he saw the beaver make his home, and a dam to give his family a place to swim, he then knew that everything had its place and purpose in the time to come." Her eyes opened once more. "It's been told by our people from generation to generation—we must not question our dreams. They are our creation."

John was once again stunned. What a strange, outrageous, ridiculous story! A _turtle _was the substance of the world! How much more ignorant could you _get_? And yet some part of it tugged at the back of his mind, calling back to something he had once heard somewhere—but no, he couldn't appease a heathen myth. Pocahontas laughed mirthfully as she saw the conflicting emotions pass over his face.

"Maybe you'll like it better when you've been here longer. I'll tell you about the land now." And she did. For every question he asked, she would answer to the best of her ability, with no pretentions to knowing everything, even though she seemed to. John felt a little ashamed at his earlier boastful display—she hardly mentioned herself at all in talking about the land, except in passing. But stronger than his embarrassment was his curiosity. She said that the land—"Turtle Island," they called it—stretched, unbroken, for as far as any man had ever gone. No sea split it up. And according to her, there were around three thousand Indians in the vicinity. _So much for any sort of surprise attack plan, _he thought, his skin growing clammy at the suggestion of her words.

"We've known you were here for a while," she said laughingly. "You had no idea where we were!"

John almost scowled. Sometimes her intelligence was infuriating. Perhaps it was because he'd never met a woman who actually spoke her mind before. _And perhaps I'm just worried she's smarter than me. _

"What is _Lon-don _like?"

London? Had he mentioned it? It was one of the few places he hardly ever talked about because it was the one spot that tied him to his home—too close to his heart and painful at the same time to tell stories about. He described to her its brick towers, the Thames River, the carriages and horses; how, after their colony was thriving, they'd bring some of it back here. They'd make the most out of this rich country.

Instead of being as excited as he thought she'd be, she was eyeing him with suspicion, then anger. Without warning she stormed off, jumping into her slender boat and quickly paddling away. He couldn't let her leave like that! Cursing himself under his breath, he ran straight into the water and blocked the boat with his own body.

"Please, don't take it that way! We've improved the lives of savages all over the world!"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.

"_SAVAGES?" _she hissed, all friendliness gone from her voice.

"I-I don't mean _you're _a savage," he stuttered lamely. And she wasn't—at least, she didn't act like what he thought a savage was, except for her indecent manner of dress—but he was sure she was an anomaly. Not surprisingly, this did not appease her.

"Just my _people,_" she flung back at him. _She saw right through that, didn't she? _

"Listen. That's really not what I meant." _Lie. _ "Let me—"

"You mean that's not what you meant to say _out loud_. Let. Me. GO." The words hit him like a slap on the face.

"No! I'm NOT letting you leave!" They stared each other down, her indignation growing every minute, and him getting sick with longing to just apologize and embrace her. Of course, his pride wouldn't let him. Finally, she leaped somehow onto a tree limb high above their heads. Sighing, he began to scale the tree after her, admittedly with much less ease. He decided to change tactics.

"Savage is just a word, you know, a—a _term_. For people who are uncivilized."

"Like me," she called down sarcastically. He probably deserved that.

"When I say uncivilized, what I _mean _is—" But he didn't finish the sentence, for the branch beneath him had broken and he was crashing to the ground at top speed. He doubled over in pain when he finally hit the earth, and his vision began to blur at the corners, but he could see Pocahontas walking towards him—although he could have sworn there were three of her. She murmured something softly that sounded like "foolish," and placed her hand on his shoulder comfortingly. He didn't want to meet her eyes, but her gaze was too compelling.

"What you mean is, _not like you._" She trailed off into the woods, looking back at him while singing a simple song. Her voice sounded like the lowest measures of a flute—a siren call. Laying his things down below the tree where they'd been talking, he followed after her.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to set when they arrived back at the place where they'd started, but John barely noticed. His entire body was tingling, all the way down to the very tips of his fingers. It seemed as though she'd taken him all the way around the world and back. The orange light brought out a kaleidoscope of colors and shadows in Pocahontas' face, making it even more beautiful than before, if that was even possible, and from that moment he knew that the heart he'd guarded so carefully was gone. They stood close together, their fingers intertwining seemingly of their own accord; he could almost hear the thumping of her heart—or was it his? She trembled—perhaps she was thinking the same thing. Suddenly he was filled with an overwhelming desire to feel her lips on his, to pull her close and measure the curves of her body. But she spoke before he could do anything.

"The drums…they mean trouble. I must go. And you must go back to your men before sundown."

By God, he'd completely forgotten! If he didn't find his way back soon, they'd think he'd been captured, even killed.

"Pocahontas…"

"I _must _go, I've abandoned all my work today, and Father will worry about me…" She wrung her hands worriedly, and pulled absent-mindedly at the blue stone necklace she wore. "I'll show you a shorter way to get back." Only now did he realize just how far she'd been following him that morning. She led him to a faint trail and gave him a few directions, and then she was gone, leaving him with only the phantom of her presence. Reluctantly, he turned back toward camp, and traitorous thoughts and memories of her tugged at him when he knew he should have been thinking about his men. What was _wrong _with him? Had he forgotten everything he'd come here for?

One thing, however, was clear as crystal. He had to find her again.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Hi everyone! It's been almost two months since I updated, and I know a bunch of you were probably a little put out about that. I apologize. However, I can honestly say that it was not due to laziness. This is my fourth re-write of this chapter. At first, I wanted to integrate the historical fact that the settlers actually did meet with the Powhatans, but I wrote it over and over and it just didn't mesh well. Unfortunately, cutting that out necessitated the cutting of some character building for Thomas. I will see how I can include this elsewhere. But all of that, combined with a summer geology trip, an artistic concept development project, and my various design and sewing ventures, makes it easy to see why this was slow in coming. Hopefully it's worth it! Don't worry, Chapter Four is written and on its way up! And thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, esp. An Unknown Foreign Beauty, who made me get off my butt and pick up the pace :D

* * *

John's heart was pounding so hard he felt that it would burst out of his chest.

Even though he knew that this was partly due to the fact that he was running at top speed, he felt that the exertion of his muscles couldn't compare to the whirlwind of intense emotions that was coursing through him. Fear, confusion, anticipation, nervousness, more fear. Sweat poured down his forehead, creeping into his eyes and stinging them. He stopped, for a moment, to wipe his face, catch a breath, and look at his surroundings. He could see the river that Pocahontas had called the _Quyocahannock _about 500 feet away, the familiar tree that started it all standing just as tall and imposing as it had been before. He hadn't been expecting to find her here, but all the same, it was a disappointment. That meant that finding her would be much harder.

John had been able to get away from camp on the pretense of hunting; he'd made sure to assign someone else all the tasks he was neglecting, with the promise of extra meat for a job well done. The stores of dried and smoked meat were next to nonexistent, and the garden vegetable seeds that they'd brought failed miserably in the marshy, overly saturated soil completely unlike the dry moors of England. This made hunting a necessity that no one had expected to depend on so soon, and unsurprisingly, it was a task that few were willing to undertake because of the ever present threat of Indian attacks. There had been a recent skirmish—one Indian had, presumably, been wounded, as had an Englishman. However, no more than five Indians had been there in the first place, and they'd scattered before anyone could tell in what direction they'd gone. The fear of assault had become palpable (even though the English had shot first), and Smith had been one of the only ones willing to go out into the forest and search for food.

Of course, John had an ulterior motive. For weeks, he'd tossed and turned about at night, the haunting image of the girl with the long black hair and the gentle touch of her hands hounding his dreams. He would wake up confused and disoriented day after day, and instead of seeing the many issues the colony was facing, all that he could see in his mind was—_her._ He had to come and find her, regardless of the danger he might face. Although Pocahontas had opened the window of his mind to let in the light, the blinds were still halfway drawn, and he held an innate fear of people he still wasn't exactly convinced were his full equals.

Coming to the bank of the river, John squatted in the shadow of the tree to plan just how he would go about finding her. Pocahontas had told him that this was the main river that her village fished in, and that meant that they couldn't be too far away, perhaps a few miles further upstream. But on which side? Probably the shore he was on now, since Pocahontas' canoe, as he'd learned it was called, had been waiting there. How much further inland? He'd just have to find out as best he could without being seen. The toughest part—once there, how would he go about finding her?

_That's in God's hands._

He'd picked up a few tricks from watching how Pocahontas moved through the forest. Remove your shoes, stay low, move only with the rest of the forest, no faster than the deer or rabbits or the breeze-blown grass. He added some dirt, twigs, and branches to his faded white and green clothing, just for good measure. Traveling like this-in leaps and crawls, and quick darts behind the trunk of a tree—was slow and strenuous but somehow enjoyable. He felt a part of his surroundings, rather than just an observer. The sun crept higher and higher into the sky through the thick foliage that made up the canopy of the forest, and soon the midday heat began to beat down in earnest. He'd already traveled at least four miles upstream and half a mile inland, following a faint trail of brush that looked like it had been carefully rearranged. If he didn't find signs of it soon, he was sure he'd keel over out of exhaustion.

He didn't have much longer to wait. Not three minutes later, he saw smoke creeping through the trees, smoke that was perfumed with the scent of deer. Hurrying as quickly as he could without making much noise, he followed the gentle wisps until he finally reached their source—a large bonfire outside of a huge clearing full of small woven huts and long bark houses that comprised what had to be Pocahontas' village. John was still rather deep in the surrounding forest and had nestled himself into a large, scratchy bush with leaves that looked incredibly dubious. He rolled down his sleeves to avoid making very much contact with it. Was there any way to make it into the village without being seen? Of course not. No village—even in the darkest, most ignorant depths depths of Africa—would lack that essential protection. He could faintly see the people milling around, but could make no guess at identity that would make it worth the risk. But there—a young lady who looked to be slightly taller than the rest of the women nearby was on the outskirts of the village, headed for a field of tall crops with another girl her age. They both had baskets in their arms—clearly they were on their way to harvest. John deliberated. It was worth a chance—the tall plants provided cover, and chances were there would be mainly women in the fields. He would follow them.

Upon entering the field, he could tell immediately from the soft, springy earth that there was more to farming this land than just putting the seeds in the ground. Perhaps he'd ask Pocahontas about it if the girl he was following turned out to be her. Then the reality of the situation struck him. Was he crazy, following around some young girl merely feet away from her village? Surely he was _asking _for death. But something made him push on—the wild hope that he'd see her again and that all his troubles would go away, if only for a little while. Suddenly, voices jolted him out of his internal battle. A deep, powerful masculine voice, and two female voices, one slightly more forceful than the other. The language was lost on him, but the sound of Pocahontas was unmistakable. If only he could turn round to look—but they were only feet away, and any sound might alert them to his presence. He waited, and finally heavy footsteps shuffled away. The man—probably one of the girls' father—had left, and he couldn't wait any longer to see her. In one movement, he stepped out into the open and right into her path.

The look on her face was shocked, as was the look of the girl next to her. Oh well, he couldn't worry about that now. Finally, she seemed to react, and she quickly clasped her hand over her friend's mouth and whispered in their shared secret tongue, "What are you doing here?"

"I had to see you again!" Wasn't it obvious? She looked at him, a sweet, caring, scolding look, then grabbed his hand, urgently tugging him into the forest and leaving her flabbergasted friend behind. They slipped through the field and out into the untamed forest beyond.

* * *

John noticed things that he hadn't ever noticed before. He noticed that queer thumping sound that the toad makes as it hops through the grass. He noticed the scratching of pine needles against each other as the cool late summer wind blew through them. He noticed the faint deer tracks lining the mossy earth by the low-lying bushes, and the filmy spider webs bejeweled with sparkling drops of dew that laced those bushes. He noticed his own scent—not just sweat, but that distinct human scent that differs from person to person.

However, what he noticed most was the feeling of Pocahontas' slender, dry, slightly cool hand in his own.

As she led him through the forest, she jabbered away almost feverishly, half in her own language and half in their secret communication, about the events of the past few weeks, and how excited she was to see him, and all that she had to show him. He frowned. Usually she was welcoming but aloof, letting him fill the silences with his own stories and words. There was evidently something that she wished to cover up, and he had a nagging feeling that it had to do with the wounded Indian that had surely come home and stirred up more indignation and restlessness than there had been before. He'd been stupid to make her take this risk, for surely it was a risk for her to meet him here. But what was done was done, and besides, he couldn't make himself regretful when it came to spending time with her.

Finally they came to a large pond covered with lily pads, in the middle of which stood a gnarled old willow tree that had lived long enough to grow many clumps of weeping leaves. John smiled—this, at least, was familiar. Willow trees were part of many stories of English lore. Pocahontas led him to a smooth stump that created a perfect platform large enough for two to sit comfortably. It was all so surreal, as if his wild, persistent dreams were finally coming true. Pocahontas looked at him, the nervousness gone from her face, replaced by a playfulness that made him forget his previous worries.

"Have you brought anything new in your pack?" She eyed his knapsack with giddy anticipation, clearly expecting something even more marvelous than what he'd had last time. Damn, he hadn't thought of that at all! Quickly rifling through the bag, he came upon the book he kept with him at all times—_The Travels of Marco Polo. _Marco Polowas the explorer of all explorers, the man whose experiences provided guidance for dealing with nearly any situation involving foreign peoples. Lifting the book carefully—it was well worn—he gently placed it in Pocahontas' hands.

"It's called a book. This particular one has stories of many different countries, beyond many other seas much farther than England." Her eyebrows raised, but she looked slightly clueless. She flipped through the pages absently, frowned at the words, closed it, and stared at the cover.

"I know you haven't learned written English, but perhaps we can translate it into your alphabet." Still she frowned, and blushed, embarrassed at her apparent ignorance.

"What is 'written'? Is that what these symbols mean? They don't look like anything."

"Why, haven't you a written language? I mean-don't you have symbols that you can draw to represent the words?"

"No, I haven't ever seen anything like this. We use our hands to talk when we don't want to speak." She made a few graceful, flitting movements of her hands. John chuckled to himself. It looked as though they both had a lot more to learn than he'd thought. Back in England, he never would have considered teaching a woman to read, but Pocahontas was far from a proper English woman. She was free and unpredictable and untamable, and her curiosity was insatiable. At times she made _him _feel inferior to _her_, a feeling which turned his world upside down—but for some reason, this new topsy-turvy world seemed more _right._

"I could teach you to read this book, and lots of others, too. That way you'd know all about the place where I come from, more than I could ever tell you. And if you—well, if you ever…decided to go there, people would respect you." He felt himself blush at the thought of her coming to England, with him…though he didn't know if she'd ever be convinced to wear the ridiculous, deforming frippery such as stomachers and panniers that European women insisted on clothing themselves in.

"I would like that very much, John Smith." Again she smiled, her strikingly white teeth lighting up the warm copper brown of her skin. He couldn't help it—he reached out to hold her cheek, to feel the smooth brownness that looked to him like velvet. Ah, it was exactly like velvet. She shivered at his touch, her eyes fluttering, then relaxed, closing her eyes and bringing her forehead forward to rest against his chest. For a moment, his breath went away—he'd never been so close to her before and it was making his blood run _much _hotter—but soon it became comfortable, and he wrapped his hand around her waist to pull her just a little closer. They sat that way for what seemed like a long time, and now, the things John noticed were the feeling of her breath against his shirt, the sound of his heartbeat as it thumped beside her brow, the soft curve of her stomach through her buckskin dress, and the brilliant colors of the first few leaves that were early to change. Sitting here with her was like a hazy, intensely satisfying dream. He couldn't remember when he'd been this happy. He could _almost_ forget the troubles at Jamestown, the dwindling food supply, the men who were growing disheartened and discontented, the way he was not living up to his own standards as a leader of the colony. Almost, but not quite.

All at once, and eerie whistle filled his ears. He stiffened, his muscles tensing in anticipation. Pocahontas lifted her head reluctantly and looked at him with slightly out-of-focus eyes. There it was again! It was a high, shrill noise, almost like a voice, but the sound seemed to go through his whole body rather than just ears. And it was _near. _His hand flew to his gun, and Pocahontas frowned.

"What is it, John? What's wrong?"

"Don't you hear that noise?" She stared at him incredulously, but by now he was whipping his head around, searching for the source of the uncanny noises. His eye came to rest on the trunk of the willow in front of him, which seemed to—to be _moving_. Of course, his eyes must have been playing tricks on him. But it was _still_ moving, twisting and re-forming. And the noise was definitely coming from the tree. For a moment it looked almost like a…well, a face. He glanced at Pocahontas, who, to his surprise, was looking at the tree trunk as well, except her expression was knowing and playful. A gnawing feeling in his chest told him that maybe there was a reason why willow trees featured so prominently in lore.

"Did you see something?" She was looking straight at him, her eyes probing his, searching for the truth.

"I just—I didn't see anything." Not true at all, but what else could a rational person say?

She smirked. "Hmm, maybe you should look again."

He turned towards the trunk and his mouth dropped. There, right in front of him, was the visage of an old crone's face in the bark, her black eyes piercing straight into his mind. Her mouth moved, but he didn't hear her words; rather, he _felt _them in the forefront of his mind, felt the awesome power of her voice-that-wasn't-a-voice.

_John Smith. _

He started. What kind of dark magic was this, that made a demon possess a tree and address him by name! Hastily, he fingered the cross around his neck and whispered to Pocahontas, "That tree is talking to me, what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"You should talk back." Her face was perfectly serious; earnest, even. Muttering a string of holy names and curses in the same breath, he turned around and faced the tree-crone.

"Uh…I…"

_Closer. Come closer. _He obeyed automatically. One of the tree's long, sweeping branches reached out to touch his forehead, and instantly, he felt as though he was recalling every memory that he'd ever had since his early childhood in less than a heartbeat. Dazed, he stepped back, and the tree branch relinquished its touch.

_A good soul. A handsome man. You've done well, Pocahontas. _He turned, and Pocahontas had the same expression as he was sure he had, one of deep concentration. Suddenly, he smiled.

"I like her. I like her a lot." Pocahontas grinned.

"I knew you would like Grandmother Willow." Grandmother? Surely that didn't mean that Pocahontas was descended from a tree! Never mind, he'd ask questions later.

"Grandmother Willow, your granddaughter is an inspiring woman." He bowed to both of them, somehow sensing the reverence of the situation, and took Pocahontas' hand. The old tree-crone smiled, and her dark holes of eyes seemed to twinkle with a light from within. He felt as though he could tell her anything and everything. However, the sight of a deer flitting through the forest in the distance jogged his memory, bringing back to mind the supposed purpose of his trip—bringing back game for the men. Grinding his teeth in annoyance, he turned regretfully to Pocahontas.

"I must go. I'm supposed to be bringing food home."

"I could bring you—but no, it would be noticed." Pocahontas looked off in the distance sadly, perhaps thinking of the same thing he was: the thought of going so long without seeing each other again. No. He must find a way to meet her.

"I promise I'll be here as often as I possibly can. Just meet me at the tree where we met."

"How will I know when to come?"

"Let's say every three days. If I will not be able get away for long enough, I'll leave a red cloth tied to one of the branches." He released her hand. He'd never felt so rooted in place in his entire life, but to wait any longer would make it almost impossible for him to catch any game, and would make his mates suspicious of his whereabouts. He smiled sadly at Pocahontas, touched the face of the tree crone, and parted the branches to leave.

Only he didn't know where he was going.

"Pocahontas…is there any way that you could…"

"Yes, I'll guide you to a trail that will lead you back home." They both laughed, but inside he was joyful at the thought of a few more moments with her. They soon reached the trail, and just like that, she'd vanished back into the forest. He shook his shoulders. Back to the matter at hand—he'd caught sight of a flock of quail taking flight just now.

He took aim, and pulled the trigger.


	5. Chapter 4

_It would seem that everything I came here knowing is wrong._

_When I look over my past entries, I find it hard to believe what an absolute idiot I've been. But it's not just me; we've all been idiots—me and the whole bloody Virginia Company. I wonder how we thought that we'd stake out a life in the middle of the wilderness with no knowledge of the terrain and no help from the Indians? I wonder if we thought that we'd ever actually find that gold? I wonder if I ever really entertained the notion that I'd be free to conquer America and claim as much as I could for myself?_

_Whatever we thought, one would have to be stupid not to laugh at it now._

_But the thing I wonder most at is that we really, truly thought that we could take this all, freely, from the people who live here. Oh, perhaps we could, with our guns and cannons and forts—it would only take a little manpower. But did we really think that we could do it without having a permanent mark on our records? Did we really think that these people mean so little to God?_

_I fear that we did._

* * *

"You've been in love before?"

They were sitting in a meadow near Pocahontas' village, and John was sketching out a crude map on a sheet of paper. But this question made him stop. He turned around and gave her an incredulous stare—she actually wanted to know about his ridiculous "love affairs"?

"Yes…I guess I have."

"Don't you know for sure?" Her head tilted to the side.

John considered. "Well…I suppose I knew when I was still in love, but now I'm not so sure if it even _was _love." _Because I've met you_, he wanted to say, but he could never be entirely sure of how she felt. Sometimes she would suddenly retract, becoming distant and mysterious, and once it happened, he wouldn't be able to reach through this veil until it had lifted, no matter what he did.

"There was this one woman. It was back when I was sold as a slave into the hands of a Turkish officer. He was extremely cruel…" John trailed off and looked as his hands, the memories flooding back even though he didn't want to remember. Pocahontas took his face in her hands and said deliberately, "You are free now."

"Yes, yes I am," he replied with a slight smile. "Eventually, his sister asked for me as a gift. I suppose she had taken pity on me. She was kinder than he was, and beautiful—at least, I thought so then. Beautiful, but very jealous. Looking back had my fair share of jealousy too. We never talked about our lives or the things we were interested in, even though I know she was well educated. We never shared our dreams." At this, he thought about the creation story Pocahontas had told him. Maybe it wasn't so ridiculous after all. "I really just needed someone who was kind to me, and she needed someone who was dependent on her. I don't believe either of us ever thought about giving." He also realized now that she had always looked down on him as a possession of hers, but he did not want to sound bitter. What was past was past.

Pocahontas nodded with the same knowing look she'd had when John first met her. After a silence, she said, "I know what it's like to need kindness. My mother died when I had twelve winters…twelve years in your language, you said. Many people only liked me because of her. They all thought…still think that I am very strange. So when she left, I was alone except for my father and Kekata and Nakoma. But my father has other wives and children. Kekata is a medicine man and has many more things to do; besides, it would not be fitting for a man his age to show much affection towards a girl who was not related to him. And Nakoma…she's preparing to become a woman of the village, the wife of a young warrior or hunter or scout. A good mother. Like she's supposed to be. I understand. I still love them all." She smiled a sad smile, and took off her necklace in order to show it to him. "My mother gave this to my father to give to me." John couldn't think of anything to say that was remotely sufficient, so instead he extended his arms awkwardly and she fell into them with a deep sigh—too deep for someone as young as she. He could not imagine her being an outcast, nor could he imagine her as the wife of anyone. The queen, maybe. But a wife? No, she was too independent, too full of her own thoughts to ever belong to anyone. Even himself. He stroked her back softly as he thought of these things, smelling the pine scent of her hair—undoubtedly from running through the woods and getting her hair caught in branches, he noted with a smile. Now she wore it in a braid, making her appear younger than he thought she was. Suddenly her face brightened.

"But I still have Grandmother Willow! She's been the same for as long as I can remember. And now I have you too. You are very kind, John Smith. Even when you were being ignorant, you apologized so nicely!"

Then she laughed her clear laugh that sounded like a gushing stream, and he felt uplifted.

* * *

Unfortunately, his happiness quickly dissipated as soon as he came within half a mile of Jamestown.

John Smith sat alone these days. He had a rushed, manic look in his eyes and little feverish patches always seemed to color his pale, weathered skin—it made some of the men wonder if he were possibly going mad. He hardly spoke to anyone, other than to harshly bark orders, and when he did speak, he seemed to look _through _you rather than _at _you. Of course, who wasn't going mad these days? The nights were getting brisker, colder, but they were woefully unprepared. The crops had failed, and even though Smith had mysteriously come up with a new planting technique, it was too late to expect a harvest before winter came. They were left with a diet of only the foods they could hunt and scavenge in the nearby area which, being a swamp, held very little. The few who were brave enough to go and hunt in the forests and meadows beyond often came back with barely enough to feed everyone. The camp grew slovenly, with mud tracked about everywhere because of the frequent rain, and the filth of garbage and waste. Dysentery and scurvy were beginning to spread—the two diseases combined had already made away with five people. The sole doctor that had come along was working tirelessly to treat those who showed symptoms. But besides all of this, there was another thing that gnawed at the men's hearts, making them curse in frustration and truly driving them insane. Where was the gold? This place was supposed to be a glittering paradise, a New Jerusalem on Earth, but all it had turned out to be as of yet was worse than what could be found in the poorest gutters of London. Yet somehow, this fact was quickly replaced in many of the men with an ever growing sense of greed for what was rightfully theirs. Yes, rightfully theirs. They'd agreed to it on contract, hadn't they? And so they neglected their duties to keep pawing fruitlessly in the sickeningly moist soil, searching for the hidden vein that just _had _to be there. It had to. There was no other option.

The bonfire had gone down, and almost everyone was huddling for what warmth they could find in their own tents (by now, because of the cold, everyone had consolidated themselves into a small number of cabins and tents to generate more heat). Even with the chill of the wind, however, John Smith sat on a low bench in front of the dying flames, staring into them with an intensity that betrayed the furious inner workings of his mind.

"John?"

He whirled around. Thomas was standing behind him, looking slightly unsure and even afraid. His cap was off and the wind was blowing his bright red hair in his eyes, but John could definitely see fear in them. He turned his back toward him roughly.

"What do you want, Thomas?" He hated to be rude to the boy, but he needed to be alone. He always needed to be alone, it seemed.

"I just thought you looked— well, it's late and the fire's going down and I figured you must be…uncomfortable." A bright red blush creeping onto his face, he held out a threadbare woolen blanket. John took it without saying a word and threw it over his shoulders. Several moments passed, until Thomas sat down next to him all in a rush, making sure to leave a good amount of space between them. John hadn't known he'd become _that _unapproachable. The two sat there for a long while in silence, and John could feel Thomas studying him hard. Maybe he knew his secret.

"I don't think there's gold here, you know." Thomas darted a quick glance at Smith to see his reaction, but John remained focused on the fire, which by now was merely a pile of glowing embers. Still, Thomas took it as a good sign that John hadn't already ordered him away.

"Everyone's still going crazy over it, even the other council members, but I think they're all mad. I'm collecting pearls instead. Quite a few oysters down by the bay." Thomas grinned and took out a small bag, out of which he poured a handful of sparkling pearls of various sizes. They glinted dully in the moonlight. "I don't see how some of these people would rather get sick or starve than give up on the gold. They really _must_ be mad." Thomas paused at this last statement, obviously wondering if it really _were _true. Finally, after what seemed like ages, John spoke with a bitter tone, more to himself than to anyone else.

"This is my fault. I've let things get the way they are. If I'd have done things right, if I'd actually been paying attention, if I'd listened to the council when they said don't get too chummy with the men! But I didn't listen, and so when they had a choice between obeying my orders and hunting that ridiculous gold, they chose the gold. They didn't even listen when I took away their rations; just kept on digging and throwing angry glances back at me. They knew what a fool I was to expect anything different." John wondered why in the world he was revealing this, but realized it was alright, because Thomas was level-headed and he was stable and he was trustworthy. He was also one of the few people John had come in contact with who gave a fig about him other than as a drinking companion or, more recently, a joke of a captain. To his surprise, Thomas replied coldly,

"If any of them are such idiots as to disobey their captain for gold they haven't even seen yet, they deserve all that they get." Thomas was looking off, his brow set firmly. John wondered when he'd gone from being an awkward boy of seventeen to a man with precious little pity for sinners. Had he always had that hard streak, or had the merciless existence they led here done it to him? And if young Thomas had changed that much…how much had _he?_

He decided he didn't want to know.

Thomas continued to roll his pearls around in his palm, and John continued to stare at the now-nonexistent fire, both of them wrapped in their own thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed Thomas shivering slightly, and felt guilty. With his teeth chattering ever so slightly Thomas broke the silence, a solemn expression on his face.

"Well, I suppose I'll g-get going. It's getting late and I'm s-supposed to be mending the sow's fence tomorrow—no-ot that we'll n-need it much longer, since she'll probably be gone by next week. Anyhow, good night, Captain Smith." He rose and gave a small bow—and then he was running off into the darkness.

* * *

The next time he saw her, he could see that a dark cloud had fallen over her, just as one had fallen over him. She would grasp his hand firmly, but look off in a different direction, obviously seeing things in her mind that were troubling her. He wondered about all the things it could possibly be, convinced that someone who had braved as much loss and loneliness as she had with a cheerful spirit wouldn't be upset over nothing. Had she somehow found out about the desperate situation at Jamestown? Or was it something in her _own_ home?

"Pocahontas…" He gently caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, and her eyes went out of their dreamlike state and focused on him, him alone. He was arrested by her gaze as always—how could someone so young have such old eyes, eyes that had seen everything in the entire world and still wanted to know more? But there was more than that; there was a fire behind them that was meant only for him, somehow. His stomach caught with desire, and a thought struck him.

"Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair…" He whispered the melody almost below his breath, but she heard it, and smiled.

"Her lips are like a rose so fair…and the prettiest face and the neatest hands…" He took her hands in his and kissed both of them, lingering long over each hand.

"I love the grass whereon she stands, she with the wondrous hair." Her eyes had drifted shut, but there was something wrong—soon, a tear was making its way down her cheek, and he rushed to brush it away, all the while wondering what could possibly be wrong. She had never been like this before.

"Pocahontas, you worry me. Is everything all right?"

Perhaps he would regret bringing it up, but he wanted—no, _needed_—to know what had been troubling her. Pocahontas' face became a mixture of regret and—resignation? It was a long time before she spoke.

"John, why did your people come here? Why have you not gone away yet?"

He stared at her. In a flash, all of his halfhearted fantasies that somehow he and she would be able to make a life together here in peace were gone, and in their place was the inevitable rush of booted feet and cobbled streets and screams. He knew it couldn't last. He knew that eventually it would catch up with him, that the settlers would demand land and gold, neither of which they'd be able to procure from the Indians, he was sure. And he knew that at that point there would be bloodshed; how much, it was impossible to tell. Even so, he had held onto a slight hope that he could continue in this dream world with her for an indefinite amount of time. But she knew, perhaps had guessed long before, and her people most likely knew as well. There wasn't much helping it now.

"Mostly to establish a colony. Like I was telling you before you became furious with me, when we met." He almost wished that she was angry again—anger was better than sadness. "England has been interested in colonizing the Americas for a long time, ever since the Spaniards began to set up colonies in South America, Hispaniola, and Florida. But many of the men came here for gold." He winced, waiting for the full impact of her righteous indignation, but her reply was merely curious.

"What's gold?" What's _gold_? _Only the most precious metal in the entire world. Only the thing that my men are willing to starve for. Only the thing that launched a thousand ships and will launch a thousand more as long as it exists, _he thought angrily.

Her eyes widened in shock when he pulled a gold sovereign out of his pouch. Normally he would have laughed at her positively awed expression—like a child at Christmas—but all he could think about now was the greedy glint in the eyes of undernourished men. But he noticed a change in her expression…first calculating, then one of realization—and horror. Her head jerked up, searching him silently for an answer, and he knew that she understood all that the gold meant. He couldn't bring himself to reply.

"But there's nothing like that around here," she cried, her eyes darting all around her frantically, fearfully. He knew she was telling the truth—after all, if the land were filled with gold, then why didn't the daughter of the chief wear any?

"John, you will tell them that, won't you? _Won't you?_" Her voice rose higher and higher, and she clutched urgently at his shirt, forcing him to meet her eyes. They wouldn't believe him, he knew. If they were willing to go without food for days at a time to pursue their fantasy, they certainly wouldn't take the word of a savage. But he had to tell them, like she said. Otherwise he'd be standing by, probably tied up or even dead, while they went forward with what was surely the next phase of their madness—an attack, followed by a raid. Desperate men had no fear. So against his will, he assured her that he would tell them—but, he wondered, how?

"John! If they leave…will…will you go with them?"

He'd always assumed that he'd head back to England at the appointed time, endowed with new prestige and hopefully more similar assignments from the King. But now…he wasn't sure. And Pocahontas looking at him like that, with a look that clearly had love in it, though she had yet to give any sign along those lines—that didn't help at all.

"I wouldn't have anywhere to call home. I've never really belonged anywhere."

"You could belong here."

If only it were that easy.

But…what if it was?

He'd made his decision by the time he took her hands in his and fixed her with a determined look.

"Meet me tonight. Right here."


	6. Chapter 5

John ran back to Jamestown as quickly as he could; it was already midafternoon and he wanted to waste no time. If he was going to bring down fire and brimstone on everyone, it might as well be quick.

As he neared the settlement, it seemed to him that the branches scratched at him more, that he stumbled over more rocks and stepped into more hidden holes. Perhaps the part of the forest that the white men had claimed was warning him not to cross the line, or mocking him for thinking that he could. Either way, he felt an impending sense of dread as he wedged his way through the trees and into the swampy area that had become their home. If you could call it that. The instant he'd sighted the familiar walls of the fort, he felt a thump on his shoulder and saw the same masked little creature he'd met so long ago when first exploring the woods. How he knew it was the same, he couldn't tell, but he instinctively opened his packed to let the creature rest there. He didn't want anyone thinking he'd brought home live meat.

Whether it was luck, or grace, he didn't know, but the glint of silver that registered in the farthest corner of his eyes was enough to make him jump and put his hands up.

"Oi, John! I could've killed you!" Stepping out from behind the walls of the fort, he saw a bewildered and panicked Thomas, slowly lowering his gun with trembling hands. John wondered how he'd ended up front with a gun in the first place—had he been assigned to this post? He refused to let it cross his mind that Thomas might have volunteered. Outwardly, he shook off his initial shock and walked up to Thomas as if it had been nothing, patting him firmly on the back.

"How many times do I have to tell you, lad? You've got to keep both eyes open when you're shooting. You'll never get anything with your eye squinted up like that." He positioned Thomas absentmindedly, a thought hovering somewhere in his mind that he hoped Thomas would have better aim the next time he had to shoot.

"What's been going on while I've been gone?" He'd only been away for an hour at most, possibly two, so he was shocked when he heard Thomas' furtive reply.

"They're all fed up with this. Everything. They want to hunt down the village where the Indians must be living and raid it. Tomorrow morning they want to send out a search party in all directions to find their whereabouts."

It was as if he'd prophesied the future. With his mouth still hanging open in shock, John questioned dazedly, "When did they decide this? Does—did they all agree?"

"It was Ratcliffe, apparently, who proposed it at the council meeting this morning, and the rest of the council ratified it. Said they'd all been getting too many complaints from the men about food and poor leadership-" he eyed John warily "—and they said that it was a worthy venture in order to find the gold that they'd promised their investors. Right now Ratcliffe's doing a fine job of talking about it to the rest of the men, telling them all about how they deserve their rights, even though—" Here he stopped, and lowered his voice till it was almost inaudible, "even though all the council members know we haven't any choice—they have the power to report any one of us for treason." At this, John's mouth set into a thin, hard line. Was this the price he was going to pay to keep his promise? Did he have another option?

_No, _he decided, and brushed swiftly past Thomas into the clearing where they held meetings.

From here, he could see the faces of the older council members above the heads of the small crowd. Governor Ratcliffe seemed to be doing most of the talking, but the rest of the pompous old men were spouting their fair share of propaganda. And the men—they were cheering! Throwing their arms up in the air and singing that violent song he'd sung with them once before—_we'll kill ourselves an Injun, or maybe two or three!_

He felt like throwing up.

"Ah, I see Captain Smith has finally decided to join us. Found any gold yet?" Ratcliffe laughed, and the others followed suit. He steeled himself against their jeers, and approached the platform. Newport spoke from behind him.

"We were just getting the men ready to organize a scouting party to find the natives' little hiding place. Perhaps you'd be able to help, since you're off wandering about so often." Again there was laughter, but John paid little attention. He spoke in a low voice, "What do we need to find them for? They haven't _done_ anything to us."

"You're perfectly right. But we need them. We need them to tell us where that gold is, and then we need them to give it up." Newport laughed at his cruel little joke.

"If you're so certain it's here, why don't you just ask them to help you find it _without_ burning their village into ashes?"

"Come now, Smith! You're a man of the world! That's why we hired you—you've one of the best records for killing Turks of all the officers in the Royal Army! I don't know what you're trying to do with this little _pax romana _of yours, but you ought to realize that people don't work that way. Of course they wouldn't give it to us. If they did, they're even stupider than we thought." Ratcliffe was eyeing John suspiciously, his beady eyes glistening with a hint of perception. John wondered what ideas were forming in his mind, and how many of them were not too far from the truth.

A voice from the crowd piped up. "Come on, Smith! Ye aren't here t' be a coward! Savages don't have the brains to use it right, anyway! Prob'ly uses it to wipe their arses wit'!"

Something inside of John broke loose at that. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was love, but whatever it was made his blood boil.

"THEY ARE NOT SAVAGES," he roared furiously. "I _dare _anyone else to call them that!" His chest was heaving, and he knew that he'd gone too far. The whole company surrounding him was looking at him in stunned silence—even Thomas's mouth was hanging open. He could hear the sound of blood thumping in his ears. Was time even moving anymore, or was it frozen?

His eyes closed and his fingers went to his temples. "I—I met one of them—"

"You _what?"_ Someone had grabbed his shoulder. Ben Connolly. His face was changed—he looked outraged, betrayed, and there was something there that John had never noticed before: hate. Almost as soon as the hate had crept into his face, Ben jerked his hand away from John's arm as if he'd been burned.

"A _savage_?" Thomas was staring, angry and incredulous. Not Thomas. He couldn't be filled with hate, too—

"That's where he's been off to all this time! Cavorting with one o' them dirty Injuns," someone cried out.

Suddenly, John Smith knew what it was like to be the preyed and not the predator.

"It doesn't matter, what matters is that we need them. Desperately. You've all seen for yourselves how this colony's falling into ruin. They—they live here, they've _been _living here, and they could help us survive. We'll die this winter if they don't help us…" His arms were held out, beseeching someone to listen, to understand, but everywhere he turned, there were cold eyes and glares. Someone spat at him with remarkable aim. Ratcliffe's voice was cold, steely, and smug, as if he'd been waiting for this moment all along.

"No matter how much of a savage you've turned into, Smith, we _will _find that gold. And if you're the one to get in the way, you can be sure you'll be tried for treason and hanged." His lip curled in disgust. "You're dismissed from your position."

Even though it wasn't winter yet, John was sure he had never felt this cold.

* * *

He knew he had to warn her.

The moon had already risen, and John was sitting in his tent, quietly packing together all of the things he cared most about. He'd taken his side. If there was a battle, then John would be sure to be on the side of the Indians, and if they won, he was sure he'd never be allowed back in the white men's camp again. If they didn't win, it didn't make any difference—he'd be dead.

His throat was raw from the cold. He forced warm breath out of his mouth to try and warm his hands, and as he did so, he could only think about Pocahontas. Not dreamily, and not anxiously, but with a creeping terror the likes of which he'd never known. She thought that he'd be able to diffuse the situation. She'd be waiting for him to tell her so. How could he tell her instead that his people were planning to search the Indians out and destroy them? He hoped with all his heart that she'd told her people of her suspicions. He hoped that they'd already taken precautions, perhaps gathered many tribes together. But ultimately, that was all he could do. Hope.

He crept out of his tent as silently as possible—by now he'd absorbed Pocahontas' every move, and knew how to meld with the shadows. He heard voices coming from the campfire in the square, but he was fairly certain that he couldn't be seen. After slipping out of the gates quietly he breathed a small sigh of relief, and took off running once more, grateful to God that this time there seemed to be neither offending twigs nor protruding roots to halt his presence or give him away. He ran faster, it seemed, than ever before, until finally he could see the Grandmother Willow's familiar leaves floating in the breeze. Frantically he looked around for her until his eyes rested upon her, her skin glowing blue-white in the moonlight. Her countenance brightened immediately upon seeing him.

"Pocahontas!"

"John!" She ran toward him, and he toward her, almost as if neither was sure the other was real. She gasped when she saw his face, and he could only imagine how he looked. He felt like their meeting earlier was years and years ago. She jumped when he clutched her arms, almost shaking her.

"Listen. My men are planning to attack your people. You've got to warn them. I tried telling them, but…they wouldn't listen. It's like this gold fever has poisoned their minds. They wouldn't listen to any reason." She was looking at him with horror now, and she grabbed his hand forcefully, pulling him back toward her village.

"You must come. You must come with me and talk to my father!" Why was she talking nonsense? Didn't she see that he had already lost the battle? That no agreement he came to with her father would have any impact on the settlers' minds or their weapons?

"Pocahontas. Listen to me. _Talking isn't going to do any good. _They—they hate your people. And you all probably hate us too. Nothing we say can change their minds." But it seemed that she couldn't see reason either, and she only pulled at him more frantically, her face crumpled as if on the verge of tears. And then—there was a call. John felt the eerie voice of the willow tree again, but sharper, almost angry.

_I have something to show you._

She dipped one of her branches into the midnight blue pool of water beneath her, making pink tinged ripples echo across the surface. John's brow furrowed; he didn't have time for this, they had to do something, not watch signs from spirit trees. Beside him, however, Pocahontas was more receptive.

"The ripples," she whispered, a breath of understanding that was beyond his comprehension. He was moved by it—she sounded like an oracle, a priestess, a wise woman.

_So small. But look how they grow. Yet—someone must start them._

His glare returned—he was trying to help in the best way he knew possible, and she was telling him he knew nothing.

"They will _not_ listen to us! I've fought in enough wars to know that!"

Her response blasted through his body.

_Sometimes the right path is not the easiest! Only when the fighting stops can you be together!_

Leave it to a spirit-possessed willow tree to make a man see sense.

Pocahontas's face was inclined up towards him, shining from the moonlight and from hope. Everything started to click into place. He realized his ultimate goal had been, from the moment he met her, to be with her—and that he'd do what had to be done to keep her. He touched his forehead to hers.

"All right. Let's go talk to your father."

And then he was enveloped in her arms, with the soft fringe of her deerskin dress blowing around him. He wondered why he'd never kissed her before, and before he had time to think too long, that was exactly what he was doing, and it was better than he'd even imagined. Here—this place—all he could feel was her, pulling him in, making him forget everything that was wrong in their lives. Only Pocahontas, with her hands on his back pulling him closer and closer to her, making his knees buckle with desire.

Perhaps if he hadn't been so lost he would have seen the shadow of another figure in the clearing, but he was too consumed by holding her waist and hoping it would never end.

The war cry pierced the air shrilly, and he barely had time to face his hidden enemy before he was knocked, breathless, to the ground. He gulped in a breath, and reflexively fended off the blow of a hatchet once he heard it whizzing toward him. He couldn't understand who this was or why this was happening, but there was little time, and no room. He expertly flipped his assailant off of him and was astonished to find a tall Indian man, his face nearly purple with rage. The man flew at him again, this time with a dagger, and somehow, John felt himself being forced back, back to the ground. His muscles were tensed more than they'd ever been before as he tried to keep the Indian from smothering him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pocahontas yank at the man futilely, speaking in her native language, but the enraged man flung her off of him like a rag doll. This gave John an extra burst of strength; how _dare _this man attack him and hit a woman of his own tribe! But the burst of strength was not enough, and he could see the dull gleam of the polished stone dagger getting closer and closer to his neck.

He would not give up.

He couldn't fight it. He was too weak.

But he wouldn't give up.

As it turned out, he didn't have to—the gunshot blast ended his struggle. He felt a release, and from the loud splash of the water, he knew that his attacker had been hit.

What he didn't expect to see was Thomas running out, more panic stricken than he'd ever seen him, holding the gun that John had only a few hours ago taught him to aim.

"Is he—is he—"

"_Get away from here," _Pocahontas snarled at Thomas. Somehow John knew she would fly at him before she'd even decided it herself, and he caught her as soon as she rushed towards Thomas, her face twisted into a strange, fierce expression and her arms clawing violently.

"Pocahontas, it won't do any good—"

"HE KILLED HIM!" She moaned the way a trapped animal would moan, and struggled even harder to get free.

He turned towards Thomas. The fool had made a mess of things, but he'd saved his life, and didn't deserve to be punished for his choice. He barked viciously at him, to jolt him out of his stupor and make him run as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Thomas, get out of here. _Get out!_" The red-haired boy looked into John's eyes fearfully, an apology on his lips, but he obeyed his captain's orders and tore off into the forest.

The villagers came to investigate just as quickly as he'd thought they would. Immediately he was locked in the grip of arms as strong as iron bars; there was little use fighting, and he couldn't have if he'd wanted to. He could only send Pocahontas a desperate look as they dragged him away to what would certainly be his death.


	7. Chapter 6

There couldn't have been much time passed between the gunshot and the present, but to John, everything that happened before him up till now seemed as though it was swimming through honey; moments tripped by slowly and got stuck in his mind. The spear digging into his throat, the shining copper foreheads painted with unknown symbols, the choking feeling as dust was driven into his nostrils, the thud of pain from being thrown onto the earthen floor of the hut. Now, with his hands tied fast to a wooden post as thick as the trunk of a young tree, he felt detached, like his mind was floating somewhere that his body was not. He had the feeling of looking down upon himself from some high place, seeing the doubled-over body covered with sweat and grime and the pale, drawn face as though they belonged to someone else. His mind's eye turned away and looked out through the small smoke hole at the night sky. It was cloudy, and the moon was invisible tonight, turning the sky into perfect darkness. And at the howling of some forest creature, he was suddenly restored to his body with a jolt and a feeling of falling.

"God in Heaven," he gasped as his lungs filled with air. Had he been dying? Was that what it felt like to die? Or was his body merely preparing him, so that his death would be distanced from himself when it came? It was impossible for his weakened mind to even think about, and so he closed his eyes, grateful for the powerful exhaustion that suddenly overtook him.

* * *

He awoke only moments later, or so it seemed, for he hadn't had any dreams. The cold wind that had gusted through the door flap had apparently decided that sleep was an unfit activity for someone in a position such as his. John gritted his teeth and muttered several curses under his breath; it was quite clear that there would be no return to rest. Just as his eyes opened, though, he saw feet in front of him, and before he could even wonder who had taken it upon themselves to disturb him in his final hours, he felt his face being lifted and his eyes locking with warm brown ones swimming in tears.

"Pocahontas!" he whispered in shock. Quickly, she touched one finger to his lips, indicating the need for quietness; then she embraced him.

"They'll kill you if they find you here with me," John whispered into her hair.

"It would be better."

"_No, _it would not be! You and I both know better than that. Two deaths could never be better than one." He looked down at her eyes, bleary and unfocused; her shoulders, shaking with each breath. She crumpled into his chest and stayed there, her hands lying limply on his shoulders. He could feel love in the gentle movements of her palms, tenderly smoothing the muscles that had been aching for so long, and it almost made him happy. Almost.

And then she spoke again, her words a shuddered sob, as if she were disgusted with herself because of some great sin she'd committed:

"I'm so _sorry._"

"For what? For _this_?" he asked incredulously. Her guilt was so outrageous that it was almost comical, and he laughed ruefully, in spite of himself—though it was more of a catching of breath than a laugh. "I've gotten out of worse scrapes than this." He thought back to all the tales of peril he'd told her the day he met her, and afterwards, some of which had been true and most of which had been highly exaggerated. Nothing worse came to mind. "I just can't think of any right now…"

Pocahontas wasn't listening. Her eyes were still unfocused, seemingly searching for something behind him, something he'd never see. Her voice was haunted.

"If it weren't for me, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't—"

"Pocahontas, look at me." He made his voice as tender as it had ever been, and reluctantly she looked at him. He'd never seen her look so hopeless, and he knew he couldn't leave her this way.

"I'd rather die tomorrow than live a hundred years without knowing you."

Her eyes widened in shock. He took strength in what he saw there—what he'd seen since they'd met in the misty silence of a waterfall.

"I—you—without you I-" He struggled to make himself understood; indeed, to understand himself.

"Before I met you, I was already dead. Dead on the inside, I mean. I know because I was numb to everything that went on around me. The way you felt when your mother died, except I couldn't escape it like you could." He paused, as if trying to recall something that he'd long since forced out of his mind. "I didn't realize that I was dead, but I kept looking for things that would quicken me, and the nearest thing I could find was exploring—you've always known this, I suppose, but I figured out that being near the land gives a person life. I set out for many different places, and it helped for a time, but as soon as I'd seen what there was to see, the life went out of me again. I needed more. So I came here, where the land supposedly stretched out forever—where I'd never run out. But instead of conquering the wilderness, I met you." He smiled a bright, dazzling smile at her, a smile that looked totally out of place on his haggard face, but still managed to soften Pocahontas' features because of the bliss it conveyed.

"When I looked at you, it was like I was looking at a mirror of what I used to be, or what I could have been, I don't know. I saw my _live _self in you. God, I sound like a mystic! But it's _true_," he insisted, as if he were relating an impossible tale that, against all logic, was fact. He smiled at his own earnestness, then grinned widely.

"I don't truly know how anyone stood to be around me before I met you. As I recall, _you_ had a fairly hard time of it." And for the first time in their lonely intercourse, a smile that she tried to hide stole across Pocahontas' face.

"How now! You're smiling because you know it's true!" His voice was almost jovial, which he noted with a detached wonder. At this, she no longer contained her smile, and it went into her eyes this time. Finally out of words—the last words he would speak, he realized—he fell to nuzzling her with the tip of his nose, determined to remember the contours of her face. She evidently had the same object in mind as she passed her fingers gently over his face, her eyes heavy-lidded from lack of sleep. He marveled that they always seemed to run parallel to each other, like the legs of a mathematician's compass. There were several moments of silence, both of their minds wandering off in different directions, but ending in the same grim destination. Finally Pocahontas' friend nervously stepped in, her voice urgent, and he knew that his time with Pocahontas was over.

"I can't leave you," Pocahontas moaned.

"You never will. I'll always be with you. Forever." It was an impossible promise, but he hoped that it could be true. They bent their heads so close that they breathed each other's breath; it was almost like a kiss. She rose to her feet.

He pressed a kiss to her palm and she was gone.

* * *

The beat of the drums invaded his senses.

That was the first thing that jolted him awake. _Boom. Boom. BOOM. _He fancied that the deep sound came from the very depths of hell. As he began to blink his eyes open, he saw that the inside of the hut was stained red by a blood-tinted sunrise. His prayers of miraculous deliverance had not been heard, or had been ignored. He was going to die.

Before he could begin to mutter a benediction, a group of burly Indians swarmed in and seized his arms, hair, throat. Roughly, the rope binding his hands around the pole was cut, but the release had little time to work its way through his aching joints—the warriors seemed intent on ripping his arms out of their sockets. The old John Smith would have tried to catch them off guard, disarm some, then fight, kick and punch 'til they all lay dead or wounded. But he had a strange sense that this was meant to happen, that they had every right to kill him. Still, he struggled in their arms with a desperate, irrational strength—like a once majestic animal fighting for its life in the jaws of a predator. The walk was long, but to John, time was no longer existent. Briefly he thought of a more famous innocent man trudging towards an unjust death, and it brought him again that strange feeling of destiny—that all his life had been leading him to this point.

His cheek slammed against a stone slab. There was no time to pray; no time to speak. There was only the stomach turning feeling of being suspended above a chasm by a spider thread, and the sickening whiz of something heavy rising into the sky, and the wait till it fell again that he counted by his heartbeats.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

When he felt the jolt of a body collapsing on top of him, he wondered if this was the feeling of his soul leaving his body. But instead, he stayed where he was, and there was no pain. The weight of the body was becoming oppressive, almost suffocating, and he mentally screamed for his release, until he heard the faint sound of voices penetrating his consciousness, holding him firmly in the land of the living. One voice was booming, enraged; the other boomed as fiercely, but was softer—feminine.

And then he realized who the body belonged to.

Tears filled his eyes, and as if in answer, the sweeping curtain of her hair wiped them away. She was covering him protectively, shielding him against any possible harm, and her fingers clenched his arms like iron clamps, daring anyone to try and drag her away. Bitter words flew out of her mouth in her native tongue, which he could now understand to a point; he knew that she was accusing everyone gathered there. Silence blanketed the air, which had a soft vibration in it; the sky went from blood red to the creamy pink of a conch shell.

The chief's voice rang out through the silence, but now it was strong and calm, no longer choked with hatred. And then—wonder of wonders!—she was lifting his face with those gentle hands of hers. The expression on her face was dizzying, and he took in a breath to make sure that he wasn't hallucinating.

He wasn't.

"Pocahontas," he whispered with tears in his voice, before crushing her into his arms. She pressed her face into his chest and he kissed the top of her head-her beautiful saviour's head—and stroked her back soothingly. How could she- it was incredible- _this woman_ was incredible. And she'd done it for _him_. He couldn't comprehend.

Even in the midst of these thoughts, however, he was aware of a lingering air of foreboding; an evil spirit still lurking nearby. On instinct, he turned toward the valley below, and paled instantly. He reacted before thinking and ran to push the chief out of the way—there wasn't time—

And he felt his gut explode.

* * *

**A/N: **Hey guys! After a really long time, this is here. This chapter was the hardest for me to write, by far. Not properly saved twice, four rewrites, pretty much sitting at my computer every weekend typing out some really bad stuff until finally, in the fever of inspiration, I was able to write something I was actually satisfied with. It helped that we're studying John Smith's _A True History of Virginia _in AP American Literature, because I had to delve deep into John's mind and heart to write this chapter. And there are some things I still don't understand about him. I can only hope that my effort was good enough, and that you all enjoy it!


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